


Blood on my name

by When_Tommy_Met_Alfie



Series: When Tommy met Alfie AU [15]
Category: Peaky Blinders (TV)
Genre: Angst, Canon-Typical Violence, Derogatory Language, Established Relationship, Explicit Language, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Season/Series 01 AU, Tumblr Ask Box Fic, wtma AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-19
Updated: 2018-01-19
Packaged: 2019-03-06 22:18:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,898
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13420776
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/When_Tommy_Met_Alfie/pseuds/When_Tommy_Met_Alfie
Summary: Tommy has another run-in with Darby Sabini. Things end quite badly. Alfie tries to pick up the pieces afterwards.





	Blood on my name

**Author's Note:**

> For following request on tumblr: Helloo! I know you've just written a story with h/c but can you write another story where tommy is injured badly after a fight with his enemies or something but he doesnt go to the hospital and alfie takes care of him, thank you !
> 
> Yeah. This is angsty. But of course there's some fluff in there too. Set sometime after Bad things. Not much else to say, I'm an awful person who wrote this. And quite enjoyed it, on top of it all. I hope you enjoy it too!

Tommy has begun to rather enjoy London, he decides as he walks through Camden town. Could very well be due to the man associated with it, but yeah, it’s definitely grown on him the past months. The city doesn’t show itself from its best side on this evening though, it’s absolutely pouring with rain. And added to that, there is wind. A lot of fucking wind. Alfie muttered about possible power-cuts to and fro all morning. Tommy is mostly bothered because it means he can’t smoke while on the move somewhere. Unacceptable. So it’s a walk without a cigarette on the way to Alfie’s office this evening. In the rain, and the dark. Still, feels like a perfectly reasonable thing to do.

Afterwards, he’ll think that maybe what happens next is his own fault.

Because he’s distracted, and his thoughts are somewhere else entirely. So, when he hears the familiar sound of a gun clicking behind his head, he is caught off guard. His ears pick up the sound in spite of the rain and wind, and the reaction is ingrained in his backbone. In one motion, he turns around, grabs the arm holding the gun and throws a punch at the assailant’s face. Bit of a shot in the dark, but his fist hits it mark and he hears the crunching sound of bone breaking as the figure staggers backward, grunting in pain. Running footsteps approach him from behind, and quite suddenly, he is surrounded. He can hold his own in a fight, but there are four of them and the odds are against him. It doesn’t take long before they have him cornered in a dirty alleyway. He stays on his feet at least, until suddenly there is a gunshot. Tommy freezes, instinct telling him to find an injury. Sometimes, it can take a moment for the body to register the pain… There is none. Just a warning shot then. He looks around for the shooter. The four men have backed off.

“Take one step and I’ll put a bullet through your fucking head.” Sabini comes sauntering down the alley, breaking out of the shadows. Great. He should’ve known the minute the four men jumped him, Sabini isn’t known to fight fair. His mind does the usual thing, quickly, efficiently sifting through the cards he could play, the possible outcomes. What it always does. What has always gotten him out alive before. But he’s drawing a blank here. He’s quite clearly taken up with the opposing side in the conflict between the Italians and the Jewish gang, but he would be surprised if Sabini considered him important enough in his rival’s operation to be of any value. To him, he is just a nuisance. Another pawn in a bigger game. And he’s overstepped.

Sabini has probably killed for less

Tommy stands still, suddenly feeling every blow he’s taken, weighing him down. The man is out of reach, aiming a gun at his head. And he realises he may die now.

“Thought you’d learned your lesson the last time,” Sabini says. “To stay the fuck away. But what do you do instead? Not only do you take up with the Jews, but now I hear you’re sucking Alfie Solomons cock too?” Sabini takes a step closer and Tommy straightens up a bit, suddenly realising he’s been hunched over clutching his aching ribs. He offers Sabini a slightly raised eyebrow.

“Mr. Sabini, aren’t you well-informed? I’m impressed.”

Sabini’s expression betrays him for just a second, showing something akin to surprise. Fuck it, let him know he’s right. It’s _fucking below_ Tommy to be ashamed of anything in front of this man. Especially if he’s about to have a bullet put between his eyes.

“So, it’s true then. Thomas Shelby is whoring himself out to move up in the world.” Sabini looks to his men, who laughs and holler jeering remarks.

Tommy wishes the man would just get to the fucking point. Because the longer he stands here, the more he realises how little he wants to die. How much he’s got to lose now. But there is no swaying Sabini. No deals to make. Nothing to offer. If he’s made up his mind, he’s going to shoot him no matter what Tommy says. Better to just have it over with. Before he starts to feel something.

“If that’s what you’d like to call it.” He tilts his head to the side just a bit. Shrugs. “Have to say, if I’d known it would be so effective in taking control of London, I would’ve done it a lot sooner. Maybe you should try it sometime. Seems like your current strategy isn’t working out that well for you.”

Sabini’s face twists into a scowl.

“Get on your knees,” he says, voice filled with fury that bubbles right under the surface, as he takes a few steps closer and cocks the gun. “Get on your fucking knees and beg me to spare you, and I may consider it.”

He doesn’t move an inch, merely stares at Sabini, offers him a mocking smile. Alfie always said his mouth would get him killed. It just might.

“There’s only one man I get on my knees for,” he says, eyes boring into Sabini’s. “And it’s definitely not you.”

At least he’ll die having seen Sabini look utterly baffled for just a fraction of a second. Small comforts.

Sabini quickly gets it together again, and gives a short nod to two of his accomplices, who walk up to Tommy and wring his arms up behind his back. With a hard kick to the back of his knees, he’s forced down on the ground. Sabini stands over him, puts the gun to his forehead. Tommy stares at him. He’s determined to look at this man until the second he pulls the trigger. And not think about anything else. About anyone else.

_He doesn’t want to die._

“How’s it going to be? Do you want to die here?” Sabini mocks. “In a fucking alley, and be left in the gutter?” He puts pressure on the gun and it digs into his brow. “I could send a message to Solomons. Let him know where he can find his whore. Think he’ll mourn you?” Tommy clenches his jaw. Says nothing. Just stares. “I bet not. He’ll just find someone new to warm his bed. Maybe he’ll leave you here with the trash where you belong. Not even bother to bring your body home to that family of yours.” Tommy wants him to shut the fuck up. And not mention his family. _Arthur will be upset if he has a hole in his head. Better in the chest. Less obvious_. “Wouldn’t that be fucking tragic?” Sabini waits for a reaction. “Can I get an honest plea? Or is that how you’d like to end your life?”

_Should he beg? To spare Finn from going to his funeral?_

Tommy takes a breath through his nose. “Guess that’s how it has to be.” He hopes they’ll have the fucking sense not to show his body to Finn.

He doesn’t _fucking want to die._

“Fine. Have it your way.” Sabini shrugs. Cocks the gun again, but lets the moment drag on. _Pull the trigger._ Tommy wants to close his eyes, because when it gets down to it, there are a many faces he’d rather imagine right now than Darby Sabini’s. The sound of the rain is drowned out by the beating of his own heart in his ears. _Pull the fucking trigger._ It takes too long, and his mind is racing.

He was out of cigarettes yesterday. Discovered it when they were already in bed and he wanted a smoke after sex. Alfie reached down on the floor for his trousers and dug through the pockets. Threw an unopened packet at him. The brand he likes.

“Figured you’d run out. The way you go through those.”

Tommy lit one and ignored Alfie’s mutters of ‘filthy habit, that’

He would’ve liked to tell Alfie that it was nice of him, the whole thing. Now he won’t have the chance to.

_Would Sabini just fucking get on with it?_

A gunshot echoes through the alley, cutting through the howling wind.

Tommy registers the sound, which means Sabini can’t have put the bullet in his head. This thought hits him before the pain in his thigh does. Someone screams, and it takes a moment for him to realise it’s him. He’s been shot before, somehow he forgets in between how much it hurts. _Sabini isn’t going to kill him? Why?_ Tommy’s mind is reeling: the pain makes it impossible to think clearly.

“I want you to remember something from this night,” Sabini says, but he can barely hear it over the blood rushing behind his ears. And the ringing. “You may be all that back in that sorry excuse for a city you call home. But you’re out of your league here, the moment you set your foot outside of Solomons’ bedroom. You may be a good fuck to him, but you’re also a liability. Fucking remember that.” He leans down, lowers his voice to a whisperer. “See how easy it was for me to get to you? Think of that the next time you have Solomons' cock up your arse. That this-“ the cold metal of the gun digs into the wound in his leg and Tommy grits his teeth, but ends up letting out a stifled yelp of pain. “This is how you’re paying for it. Think of that.”

Tommy breathes, tries to focus on anything but the white-hot pain exploding from his leg. There is no way he will let Sabini have the last word in this. Maybe he’s gone insane, but he fucking refuses to have Alfie of all things be used against him.

“Oh, believe me, the only thing I’ll think about-“ he sneers. It must look utterly deranged, laced with pain. “Is how good it feels to be fucked by the man who runs all of London.”

Sabini’s eyes go all wide and manic. Why doesn’t he just shoot him? Tommy’s head isn’t working right, he doesn’t understand… What are his motives? Sabini spits in his face, causing him to wince in spite of himself. And then he turns to leave.

“Watch his face, Changretta likes it. For some fucking reason. The rest is fair game.”

The hands holding him loosens their grip and Tommy ends up face first on the wet cobblestones. He tries to push himself to his knees, wipe the spit from his face because it’s fucking humiliating- Then, the first kick hits him in the ribs. And there is a brief moment of clarity, when he thinks that his mouth may not get him killed tonight, but it’s going to end up being a rather close call.

...

Alfie fucking hates the _fucking_ weather. And not just a certain weather, just weather in general. It’s always some shit or another. Today’s gift from the deepest pits of hell is a storm that’s succeeded in keeping him holed up in his office far longer than he planned on. Tommy hasn’t showed up yet, which means he’s most likely hiding at home. Probably doesn’t want to get his hair wet. Tommy being in his house waiting for him should be reason enough for Alfie to get his ass out of the chair, but fuck, it’s absolutely pouring outside. The door opens, and he instinctually thinks it must be Tommy. Only person in the entire world who would walk into his office without knocking first. So he’s highly displeased to see that it’s one of Sabini’s men. He recognizes him, because he’s got that face ugly as sin. Very much a downgrade from seeing Tommy come through that door. Ollie is becoming sloppy, clearly.

The man wastes no time on pleasantries. “Sabini’s got a message for you.”

“Does he now?” Alfie reclines in his chair, putting his hands behind his head. _Where the fuck is Ollie?_

“That you might want to swing by Warden road on your way home.”

“Oh, has Sabini gone through the trouble of setting up some sort of surprise birthday party? Considerate of him. He’s a bit off though. With about six months. But I guess it’s the thought that counts with these things, innit? Also, not much of a surprise now that I know.”

“He’s had a little chat with Thomas.”

Alfie’s heart does this weird, painful sort of cramp. Is that how it feels to be overwhelmed by complete and utter panic for just a second? Possibly. If that is the case, he doesn’t enjoy it. Though to the man, he just offers a shrug and a lopsided grin.

“Nothing makes me happier than when all the important people in my life come together. But then he really should know my birthday is in fucking April, right? Pretty sure Tommy knows that. Attentive, that boy.”

Sabini’s henchman just stands there. Alfie props his elbows on his desk and studies him. Waits.

“I would get to it if I were you. He may need some patching up.” The man finally says, and Alfie throws his hands up.

“Oh, quite, yeah, I guessed you were the sort. Fucking dropped a few too many times as a child, I guess? Because you’re honestly standing here, implying I’m not getting the message. Just coming into my office and insulting my intelligence like this. Dragging mud all over my nice floors.” Alfie pauses, scratches his beard. “Warden road, you say?”

“Yeah,” the man answers stiffly. At least he’s fucking uncomfortable. Alfie would’ve liked to keep this up for a bit, let him sweat a while longer. But he doesn’t exactly have the time for that now, does he?

“I’m guessing Sabini knows that expression… how does it go again- don’t shoot the messenger? On account of him sending you here to me, like some fucking carrier-pigeon. Making thinly veiled threats and shit.” Alfie bores his eyes into the other man, who in turn can’t seem to keep his gaze fixed on anything. “Good expression that. In this business. Suppose it’s to give us some sense of honour. Here but no further, you know.” His grin widens. “But then Sabini didn’t take into account that I’m completely off the rails, yeah?”

He reaches into his desk drawer, and before the man has time to process what he just said, he is spilling his brains all over Alfie’s office floor. Ollie comes running at the sound of the gunshot, and meets him as he walks out the door, pulling on his coat and pocketing the gun both at once somehow.

“Clean that shit up. See if you can get that stain out of the rug. Fucking shame, I liked that thing.”

 

Alfie Solomons doesn’t run. It doesn’t do to rush about on the streets: it ruins this air of nonchalance he usually aims for. But there’s a fucking storm, and not a sane soul is out in this weather, so if there is a definite sense of urgency to his movements, no-one is there to see it. His brain is in a loop of different curse words and plans of quite gruesome ways for Sabini to pay for this clear fucking infraction. Weren’t it for the fact that he’s got a concise plan to follow, he may have just snapped completely. But now he does, so he clings to it and his sanity. Get to Warden road, find Tommy alive –banged up, but alive, definitely- get him home and into a bed, safe and sound. Then annihilate Darby Sabini and his entire fucking organisation. Good plan. Sound plan.

However, finding that the alley is completely empty throws a bit of a wrench in it. And the rainfall is so heavy, it’s impossible to see any traces of a fight. Blood, it’s impossible to see any blood.

“Thomas?” He calls out anyway, listening through the wind for any and all sounds. The alley is littered with the usual junk: an old armchair, a pile of rags, unidentifiable mountains of scrap. Even if finding that Tommy has been left among the trash like some common lowlife would be fucking awful, the opposite is almost worse. Not finding him. Fuck. New plan. Alfie pinches the bridge of his nose and closes his eyes for a moment, feeling very overcome all of a sudden. Unfamiliar feeling, that. Would Sabin lie? No, no point in that. Could the goon he sent just be so fucking stupid he gave the wrong street? ‘course not. He’s not thinking clearly.

Home, becomes the new plan. Make some calls, get some people out to search. Probably should’ve done that last part to begin with, but there’s this ringing in his head that won’t stop and it makes thinking straight very hard. His eyes scan the gutter the entire walk home, almost hoping to find Tommy collapsed somewhere along the way.

No such luck.

He finds the front door unlocked when he reaches his house.

The first thing that crosses his mind as he enters is how bloody nice it is to be out of the wind. The next, is that the hallway reeks of blood. And third, as he discovers when he tries to flick the light switch, there has been a power-cut. Just one fucking thing after the other this night, innit?

His eyes adjust to the darkness and he can make out a soppy pile on the floor. Tommy’s coat, he states when he picks it up. Dropping the garment back onto the floor, he makes his way into the kitchen.

And isn’t it a sight for sore eyes, to find Tommy lying on the kitchen floor? Awful, of course, because he’s lying in a pool of blood, looking about as dead as any man Alfie’s ever seen. But he’s there, and the ringing in Alfie’s head stops. Tommy’s right leg is propped up on a chair, and his jacket is tied around his thigh to stop the bleeding from an injury, presumably. Crafty, his boy.

“Tommy?” he crouches down, shakes him gently. “You awake, love?” Tommy lets out a pained sound and quite surprisingly opens his eyes. Yeah, he’s nothing if not a stubborn little thing.

“Welcome home, darling,” he slurs. “Sorry ‘bout your floor. Had a run-in with Sabini.”

“Any idea how much blood you’ve lost?” _Are you about to die on me, on my kitchen floor?_ For once, Alfie doesn’t leave room for any detours in this speech.

“’s fine. Bullet didn’t hit any major arteries. Would’ve bled out already then.” Tommy’s voice sounds all thick and wet, like the blood is just sloshing around in his throat. Nasty sound.

“Good, that’s good...” Alfie nods encouragingly. “Any other injuries we’ve got to handle right now?”

“Think I’ve got a concussion. Broken ribs. Maybe my right shoulder is dislocated. Rest is just bruises.” Even such a fragmented sentence seems to take a lot out of him, and Tommy turns his head to the side, coughs up a mouthful of blood. Alfie nods again.

“That's it, eh? No worries, then, bet you’ve had worse. I’ll have to do you the disservice of stitching you up, because the phone line is dead.”

Tommy moves his head in what could be considered a nod. “Was going to do it myself, but I got dizzy. Had to lie down.”

Of course he fucking did. After dragging himself home with a perforated leg just pumping out blood, Tommy’s first reaction is to ‘stitch himself up’. Yeah, they’ll have to talk about that later.

Alfie has no idea how Tommy has managed to get anywhere at all, he states once he’s gotten all his drenched clothing off. Because he looks like one of those porcelain dolls Alfie likes to compare him to: except someone has dropped the doll and glued the pieces back together haphazardly. There may not be any jagged pieces of him sticking out at all ends, but the feeling is the same. Utterly broken. Complete fucking disarray of bruises, swollen red marks and scrapes. Alfie has both seen and caused his fair share of gruesome injuries, technically much worse than this. And somehow, this is still the most awful thing he’s had to face. Because it’s Tommy, a small voice at the back of his mind tells him. _Because you care about him._ Yeah, seems like it’s come to that. He covers the mess with a blanket, leaving the injured leg exposed. He’s kept the makeshift bandage on –can’t afford to lose more blood at this point.

Then Alfie gets to play doctor in perhaps the most bizarre scenario in his life yet, with Tommy lying across the kitchen table and the only source of light being candles. He curses himself for not keeping any morphine in the house: what sort of rookie mistake is that?

“Sorry, love, afraid this is all I can get you for the pain.” He puts a bottle of whiskey to his mouth and allows him a generous gulp. “Never thought I’d encourage this drinking habit of yours. I’ll take off this fine bandage, yeah?” He unties the blood soaked garment to reveal an ugly looking wound.

“Pity. I liked that jacket,” Tommy mutters. Alfie thinks that he’ll gladly buy his vain boy every suit in London, as long as he gets through this.

Stitching shut a gunshot wound in candlelight is about the most difficult thing Alfie’s done, as it turns out. It’s not made easier by the fact that Tommy can’t hide that it hurts like hell. Once he’s halfway into the exit wound, his cheeks are wet with tears. Then again, it’s pretty dark, so there’s no way to know for sure. So Alfie pretends not to notice, for Tommy's sake. When he’s finished, Tommy is soaked with cold sweat and trembling. Only the shoulder left, then…

“I’ll count to three, ‘aight?” Tommy gives a short nod. Fuck, he’s pale. Looks almost translucent.

“One, two-“ and on two Alfie pulls. There’s this sickening, wet, crunching sound as the shoulder pops back into its socket, but it’s nothing compared to the bloodcurdling scream Tommy lets out. He pitches forward off the table and Alfie catches him, tries to find a way to hold him that won’t aggravate any of the injures. Impossible feat, that.

“Shh, I’ve got you. ‘s okay, sweetie. All better now. That’s the worst of it, yeah?” he mutters soothing nonsense as Tommy’s breathing slowly calms a bit. “Let’s get you to bed, eh?” He shifts his arms as he tries to figure out the best way to carry him without touching the broken ribs. Again, impossible feat. '

“I can walk on my own,” Tommy says quietly, without looking at him. “Don’t coddle me.”

Only Thomas fucking Shelby would call being carried after having been practically beaten half to death ‘coddling’. Alfie wishes that Tommy would just let himself be cared for, for once in his goddamn life. Because it’s not right, is it? Tommy having to drag himself home and pass out on the kitchen floor, all fucking alone in the world as usual. Always Tommy against the whole world, innit?

But something about Tommy’s voice tells him he needs this. Alfie’s got no idea what Sabini has been up to in that alley, what kind of nonsense he’s been putting in Tommy’s head. A chat about that is definitely in order once Tommy’s brain clears up a bit. But now is not that time.

“Fine. But I really thought we’d gotten over that fucking threshold by now.”

One bloody awful walk up the stairs later, he can finally deposit Tommy in the bed.

Tommy is shaking after the ordeal, and has gone from pale to almost white. Yeah, if that mouth of his doesn’t get him killed, his pride definitely will. Or his stubbornness. Alfie tells himself that was the last time he enabled stupid behaviour like this.

“How did you even manage to get home? Your leg seems rather useless.” He piles blankets on top of him.

'“I’ve got two. The other one worked alright”

Alfie shakes his head at this and covers him with the duvet too, before slumping down on the chair next to the bed. Tommy opens his eyes and gives him a look. But there’s no real sharpness to it. He just seems very tired.

“You’re not going to sit on that chair all night, are you?”

Alfie makes a face to show that he just might.

“No you ain’t,” Tommy states. “I’m cold, and you’re like a furnace. Get in.”

Let it be said that it’s not in Alfie’s nature to deny Thomas Shelby a thing like that. He leaves his wet clothes in a pile – _trivial things_ \- and lays down next to him. Tommy is cold, alright, and Alfie wishes he could wrap his arms around him, pull him close. But that would probably result in one of those broken ribs puncturing one of his fucking lungs too. And isn’t that the only thing missing from this shitshow of night?

Alfie settles for just stroking his hair softly.

“I went looking for you,” he says. “You realised that was Sabini’s plan, yeah?”

Tommy mutters something incoherent.

“You could’ve stayed put. Would’ve lost a lot less blood that way.” Alfie states. “That’s why you faint, to let the blood flow back to your head, keep it functioning. And instead you walk about, just leaking like a broken bottle all over the place, silly boy. Sin to waste good liquor you know.”

He gets no response. 

“You knew I would come looking for you right away, didn’t you?” Alfie asks, because it suddenly feels very important that Tommy knows this. Acknowledges it.

“Saved you some trouble dragging me back home,” Tommy finally says. There is a pause. “I don’t want to be a liability.”

 _Liability._ Not Tommy’s own word, that. And Alfie wants to strangle Sabini with the man's own entrails for putting words like that in his mouth.

“What kind of talk is that? For all the shit I give you about making stupid decisions, we both know you’re the clever one, yeah? This is an equal partnership, nothing less.”

“It isn’t, though,” Tommy says, too quietly.

“Your brain has been rattled around in your skull, clearly.”

There is another stretch of silence, until Alfie finally speaks up again. Softer, this time. “Thomas, whatever Sabini told you, forget about it, alright? Desperate move from a desperate man, this. And he should be, because now I’ll have to kill him, won’t I?”

“You shouldn’t escalate the situation… over this. You have to think rationally about it.” That sounds more like the Tommy he knows. “I’m not of any actual…” his voice dies out before he can finish the sentence. Yeah, Alfie has to stop talking. Because Tommy can’t let things be, and it’s clear that his head is a fucking mess and that just forming words hurts. And he’s not making any sense either. But Alfie is pissed.

“He’s the only one who’s escalated anything,” he snarls. “The fuck does he think he is, walking about, shooting people?”

“Alfie-“

“Fucking disrespectful, that. For all that talk of being ‘above’ brutish methods, that posh fucker sure has a lenience towards ‘em. I swear, since he shacked up with that ridiculous New York mobster, he’s lost the last shred of dignity- And don’t even get me started on _that_ parody of a man. Bloody hell, I hope Changretta accidentally breathes in that fucking stick he’s constantly chewing on and chokes.”

“Alfie.” He snaps his mouth shut, because Tommy sounds utterly exhausted. “It feels like someone is having a go at my head with a fucking sledgehammer,” he mumbles. “So you can keep talking, but please do it quietly. And no scheming. Because I can’t fucking tell you no. Can’t think straight.”

“Fine. We’ll sort it out once your head is back to normal.”

This statement passes without a response too. Alfie isn’t sure if this silence is due to the injuries or something else, and it worries him. But there isn’t much to do about it. Not tonight. He tells himself things will be better once Tommy has gotten some sleep.

All that can be heard for a long time is the sound of rain against the windowpane. Alfie lies awake and listens to it. And to Tommy’s ragged breathing.

“You bought me cigarettes yesterday.” Tommy suddenly whispers. Alfie looks at him through the darkness of the bedroom. Can just barely make out the silhouette of his cheek against the white sheets.

“Yeah, believe I did.”

“Remembered what brand I smoke and everything.”

Alfie hums.

After a while, Tommy adds: “It was nice.”

He chuckles dryly at that. “Yeah, that’s me: enabler of your self-destructive tendencies. Would be nice if you’d let me take care of you every once-in-a-while instead.”

“You’re doing a better job at it than I ever managed to do myself. Counts for something don’t you think?”

Alfie smiles, for the first time in a whole lot of hours. He fumbles a bit under all the blankets, finds one of Tommy’s cold hands. Hopes none of the fingers are broken as he takes it. It seems to be unharmed, because he gets a light squeeze in return.

"Yeah. Maybe it does."


End file.
